I feel Sick: Devi's Journal
by the Raven of Roses
Summary: this isnt really a journal, per se, but a series of oneshot things involving Devi, Johnny's rather unfortunate love interest. first chapter: the meeting, 2nd: uh....something. third? i dunno 6th ch up: poem
1. The Meeting

8-17-05

Work. Bookstores were great places, really. Except for the people. Devi strode silently through the city of shelves and tables, ignoring the whiny children and the rickety old women who lurked in the aisles. She hooked an empty cup of coffee with two fingers as she passed a dilapidated community of armchairs, and the cardboard offender was sentenced to a dustbin prison.

"Oh, for God's sake," she muttered, spying a heap of crinkled books that someone had knocked to the floor. She rearranged them on their stale shelf and kept moving.

A man was waiting at the customer service counter for her. She tossed the book she'd been holding at him and took her place behind the computer. The man left, and Devi was left for a few moments of blessed silence.

Then another man, this one looking just like the last but for the length of stitches that ran across his forehead, walked up. His eyes unfocused, he opened his mouth, and through the haze of drool-soaked syllables, Devi could just barely make out a few words.

"I'm looking for a book."

"O...kay," replied Devi. "What book?"

"Uh...I think it was blue."

Devi thought longingly of having a gun, then remembered that the only one in the store was under the front counter. How dearly she would have liked to blow the heads off of customers like this asshole.

She pointed the man toward a stand of men's interest magazines and let her elbows slide onto the counter. Her head in her hands, she wondered how long she would be able to handle the collective idiocy of mankind. She only needed this job until her art career took off, but with the way the market looked nowadays, she could be stuck in retail for a long, long time.

The end of her shift came after an eternity of hellish encounters with less-than-intelligent customers. Devi finally hung up her ID badge in her room by the mirror. The plastic surface slowly twisted on its string, reflecting the rays of a dying sun. She stood transfixed by the bloody glow until the sky faded to indigo.

The phone rang. Devi jumped, and the trance was broken.

"Devi?"

"What the hell do you want, Tonja?"

"Whoa. Calm down. Did I interrupt something?"

"Yeah. I was about to get laid."

"Ha, ha. Very funny, Devi. Look, I was wondering if you wanted to go out tonight. There's a new club opening. It's called the Abyss. Derrick said that they're booking a really good band from New York."

Devi's bad mood evaporated immediately.

"Really? What're they called?"

"Rasputina, I think."

"Sounds dark. Can you pick me up in an hour? I'm still in my Mundane uniform." Devi fingered the hem of her dark green shirt.

"It sucks that they won't let you wear anything cool to work."

"It's a bookstore. What do you expect?"

"Yeah, I guess." Tonja laughed. "I'll pick you up in an hour, but you better be ready. It's already almost ten."

"The club's open until 4am, though, isn't it?"

"Of course."

"Then what are you worried about?" Devi allowed herself a small smile. "See you in an hour."

"Bye."

Devi hung up, the conversation still ringing in her ears. She smiled, then set to work. She only had an hour, and if she wanted to get any painting in, she had to move fast.

She threw off her shirt and jeans, digging out a pair of her favorite black pants. She jumped into them while she searched her drawers for her mesh shirt, but all she came up with was a pair of ripped fishnets. She ripped them at the crotch and set them aside, changed tactics, and located a black halter top. The fishnets were pulled over her head and the halter top, the entire effort taking less than thirty seconds. She just had to touch up her eyeliner and she was ready to go.

Devi grinned. Time for painting.

When Tonja pounded at the door fifty-nine and a quarter minutes later, Devi was absorbed in her latest work, a portrait of a girl with red eyes. Finally, Tonja found her key and opened the door--Devi had given her a key in case something like this happened. She burst into Devi's studio to find her friend covered in paint and clutching three paintbrushes and a palette at once.

"Time to go, Devi," she sighed, dragging her away from the canvas.

"Hey! Wait! At least let me cap the paints!" she cried, struggling back toward her easel.

Tonja rolled her eyes and released her. Devi skittered around the room, capping paints and sticking brushes into a an of water on the ground. She carefully added a touch of color to the girl's hair, then dropped the last brush in with the others and grabbed her jacket.

I like the look," commented Tonja on the way to the club. "Artist chic, huh? I'll have to try it next time I go insane."

"Oh, shut up, Tonja," grinned Devi. "You know you're just jealous."

The club was dim, as per usual. Scratchings of cello music and haunting vocals drifted through the smoky haze of smoke and heat. The band must have started already. Devi could see many people, almost all of them in black or red, swaying to the beat. As Tonja steered her toward the bar, she felt herself swaying along with the others.

"Snap out of it, Devi."

Devi shook her head rapidly, dispelling the partially-drug-induced trance. There were enough chemicals floating around in the air for a girl to get high off of. She ordered a drink and sat down, still slightly dizzy.

"I'm gonna go dance, okay?" called Tonja over the din.

"Go ahead!" answered Devi. "I'm feeling a little overwhelmed. I'll just sit here, okay?"

"Whatever you feel like doing!"

Tonja wandered off, and Devi was left mostly to herself. People came and ordered drinks, but none stayed long enough to really take notice of her. That was how she liked it anyway.

Devi pulled out a pen and began to absent-mindedly draw on whatever paper was handy--napkins, mostly. She sketched the people she saw, adding little touches to make them somewhat frightening. She was in the middle of adding horns to the bartender when something caught her eye.

He wasn't exactly the tallest guy she'd seen. Not short, either, but the way he hunched over in his seat made him seem smaller. She didn't really get a good look at him because of the lighting, but she could see that he was watching her. Probably security, though why the club would have employed a guy like him for security she'd never know. He looked away quickly when she made eye contact. Just some pathetic wallflower, then.

Devi resumed drawing on napkins, disinterested in her watcher. She finished the bartender's "portrait" and looked up to get another look at the wallflower for another drawing. He was gone, though, so she moved on to a vampire near her.

Something bumped her arm. Devi looked up to see a black rose tucked into the strap of her purse. She looked around to see if anyone else had been given one, but the only black was on clothes and skin. A small smile escaped her, and she carefully slipped the flower behind her ear.

The next day, Devi rolled out of bed and onto a pile of paint brushes. She spat a curse and stood, stretching the kinks out of her muscles and spine. A pounding headache greeted her cheerfully, reminding her of the night before. She hadn't drunk that much, but the noise alone had been enough to render her temporarily deaf.

Then she looked at the clock. It read "11:42am."

"SHIT!"

Her manager was not pleased. He ranted for awhile about being on time and how she was starting the day off on the wrong foot. Devi dearly wanted to shove his head up his ass, but that would have gotten her fired, and she needed money for food. Food and paint. As it was, she resumed her place at the customer service desk in the same clothes she'd been wearing the night before, wondering when the manager was going to notice that not only was she late, she was also dressed for a concert.

Hours into her shift, a rather small, nervous young man approached her. He wasn't really short, but the way he hunched over made him seem smaller. She recognized the look: the battered ex-teenager who just wanted to move around unnoticed. He gave her a weak, watery smile and surveyed her with a pair of sharp brown eyes.

It was the guy from the club. She was sure of it. He had that same air of unease about him, like he was afraid of being attacked. His skin looked ashen in the flourescent light, not pale, but sickly, as though he hadn't been outside for awhile. There was a starved look in him. He hadn't eaten in awhile, either, if the skeletal look of his arms and hands was any clue. His spiked, blue-black hair gleamed dully as he shifted from one foot to the other.

"Er, I'm looking for something by Edgar Allen Poe," he murmured, his voice so low she could barely hear him.

"Oh. Not many people read him anymore." Devi left the counter and beckoned for the man to follow her. "His works are over here with the other classics."

"Thank you." The man followed close behind, making almost no sound on the carpeted floor. "Most people don't even know about Poe anymore. It's very difficult to find his poems, much less his books."

"I know. This is one of the only places that still carries such 'outdated' material. Here." Devi stopped in front of a dilapidated shelf in the very back of the store, scanning the rickety shelves before selecting a dusty tome from the others. "The Complete Works: Edgar Allen Poe."

"Thank you," murmured the man, gently taking the book and holding it as though it were made of glass. "I've always liked Poe. Very dark."

"Do you like Dickens, too?" asked Devi warily.

"Not really. Too wordy for my taste. I prefer Lovecraft." His sideways look was just as wary as hers.

"Me too." Devi smiled. "I'm Devi. Who are you?"

"Pleased to meet you, Devi." The man abruptly swept into a low bow, startling her. "I'm Johnny C, but seeing as how we share this intimate love of literature, you can call me Nny. What has you working at this hellish book outlet?"

"I need money until my art career gets off the ground."

"Painting?"

"Yeah. Why, are you a painter or something?"

His gaze dropped. "Sort of."

"Wow. That's weird, isn't it? It's not often to meet somebody who's into painting, especially a guy. How old are you?"

"Twenty-something, I think. I lose track."

"I know the feeling. I only know what day it is because I need to fill out order forms all the time." Devi grinned and led the way back to the register. "We should hang out sometime."

"I can come back tomorrow and talk," offered Nny. "T-that is, if you want me to...I mean, I'd understand if you don't want me to-"

"I'd love to talk to you again tomorrow." Devi rung up the purchase and smiled again. "That'll be thirteen dollars even."

He handed her the money and lovingly tucked the book into his messenger bag. Devi caught a glimpse of something black. Nny, noticing her stare, pulled out a rather crinkled black rose.

"So you were the one, huh?" laughed Devi as Nny's face gained a degree of color.

"I just thought you looked like you needed something to cheer you up," he stammered. "I, I always give these to the wallflowers."

"You don't have to be embarrassed," Devi reassured him. "I loved it. In fact, I even started to paint it into one of my pieces."

"Really?" Nny's face broke out into a wide grin. "I can give you this one if the other's getting dry. I-I could give you a new one every day until the painting's finished so you don't have to use a dead rose."

"I'd love that, thank you."

Nny nodded and turned to go, but Devi had to give him one last parting comment.

"You look much better when you smile, you know. You should think of doing that more often."

"I might," he answered quietly, and then he was gone in the forest of bookshelves.


	2. Nightmare

8-17-05

She had loved him once. That she knew. It seemed almost laughable now, the idea of having feelings for such a twisted creature other than loathing. But there was no changing the past, and in her defense, she didn't know the extent of his madness when he walked up to her in the bookstore. She had no idea what would happen, the pain and fear that would come after he asked her where to find a copy of Edgar Allen Poe's stories and poems.

That had revealed itself in due time.

She knew it wasn't healthy to be so afraid. He had died a long time ago. He couldn't hurt her now. There was nothing left of him but a few papers and paintings. Even the house and the body had been eaten up, vanishing into ashes when the fire broke out. She had viewed the spot herself, the gray and white dust mixed with black debris, the brilliant flashes of melted color poking out like malignant tumors.

Still, she could feel him watching her.

She should focus on her work. It was all she had left now. She had pushed them all away, all of her friends, for fear that they would turn out like him. The only constant was her canvas, her paints.

Her memories.

She could feel the pressure on her mind. The memories crowded around her, threatening to spill into her and devour her from inside. It was all she could do to keep painting, to drown out the voices with blaring music and the sounds of brush on canvas. Her demons wrenched themselves out of her head and pinned themselves to dark, post-apocalyptic scenes and snarled at terrified faces.

But one monster refused to be woven into the fabric of her paintings.

She understood his need for numbness. She finally comprehended his insane need to be without feeling. The long nights and even longer days of fear, of despair, of madness drained her, took control of her. She hated letting go of reason and letting her emotions reign. It repulsed her to feel the wet, hot tears carve channels down her face. Even her work refused to deter the torrent of emotion.

How deeply she understood him now.

He had been sick. She knew that then, and she knew it now. But his sickness had spread, had engulfed her as well. As it had him, it was slowly eating her away until there was nothing left but a hollow shell. In time, she would probably go as he did.

Of course, she didn't have a gun, but that could easily be remedied.

She had loved him once. That she knew. What she didn't realize, though, was that she still did.


	3. All The Lonely People

5-27-05

"Look at all the lonely people..."

Once upon a time, a girl loved a boy. She was wary, he was shy. In time, they got to know each other very well. Or at least, SHE thought so. They seemed to be heading for a wonderful courtship, perhaps marriage. It was all so perfect.

Then he tried to kill her. Suffice to say things didn't exactly end well. She never really understood the motive. She was given a reason, but it wasn't the right one. Now she sits alone, terrified out of her mind and wondering what went wrong. Her bitter tears fall unnoticed.

Devi hated people. They sickened her. So many horrible things encased in a human shell. It just wasn't really worth trying to search out the good ones. Better to warp them, to set up the defenses to ensure never being hurt.

Devi really didn't like leaving her apartment. It was so nice and safe inside. Why should she even try to go out into the horrible world? It was far easier to barricade herself in her room with a coffee pot and a LOT of instant ramen.

Devi loved to paint. She loved the feeling of creating a living, breathing work of art. It consumed her so completely that she had more than once passed out at her easel. The many paintings cluttered her home and made for a lovely little fire hazard.

Devi only loved one person in her strange, twisted life. He had approached her back when she worked in a book store, and they had immediately clicked. Maybe it would have been better if they never went on a date. Then maybe he wouldn't have tried to kill her. Maybe things would have been different.

Probably not, but it was a nice thought.

Devi died oh so long ago. She died that night when he called. It was so long after their date, yet it had only seemed like the night before. She hated him for calling her even more than she hated him for trying to kill her. He seemed so sorry, yet she couldn't ever trust him again. Any chance they ever had was gone. As much as it had hurt, she had to push him away.

Devi sits alone in her apartment painting. The colors slash across the canvas, an image forming on the dark background. Sharp features, spiked hair, a frame so thin it looked almost painful, the haunted, sad look of the lonely soul. She wipes away a tear, smearing red across her cheekbone, and sits. She is asleep before she hits the ground.

Devi dreams. She imagines that there never was a time when she hated him. They are together, and they are happy. No violence, no arguments, only happiness.

And then she wakes, comes to in a world where nothing ever ends happily. Her bitter tears fall on half-dried paint, and she wishes desperately that it hadn't all gone so wrong.


	4. Devi's journal

8-18-05

It's so easy to say that you don't care. It's so easy to say that you hate them. That they can just go to hell. That you won't miss them.

It's so easy to pretend not to feel. To be an insect. To be cold. To think that everything can pass you by without leaving its imprint on your soul. To fool yourself into thinking that nothing can touch you.

It's easy to delude yourself, but it's not easy to keep the dream alive. Reality presses closer every day. It crowds in on you, slowly turning you towards the truth. And one day, it all comes crashing down.

It's easy to want to give up. When your defenses are stripped away, it's easy to want to run. It's easy to flee from the world, to trap yourself inside your mind. It's easy to destroy yourself from the inside out.

It's hard to care. It's almost impossible to open up your heart and accept that some people can be good. It's impossible because they always leave.

It's hard to want to get better. It's hard to accept that you are fucked up inside. It's hard to recognize your sickness. It's nearly impossible to realize that you need help.

It's very easy to die.

Jump off a bridge.

Swallow poison.

Cut your wrists, your throat.

Shoot yourself in the head.

It's easy to die.

What's hard is living.


	5. Devi's Journal: An Ending of Sorts

9-20-05

I can't believe I'm saying this. It sounds so foreign rolling off of my tongue. But despite everything I try to do, I can't deny what's right in front of me.

I love him.

Johnny died yesterday. It was Annie who found him. Poor kid. I'm not sure if she'll ever get over it. She said he was sitting in front of his easel, the paint on his final work slowly drying. He'd painted Annie's likeness. I think that's what hit her the hardest.

Annie said the gun was still in his hand. He'd gone peacefully, despite the violent means he chose. There was no sign of regret in the posture, and rigor mortis hadn't even set in. He'd leaned away from the painting to avoid letting any blood ruin his work.

Since there were no records of his birth anyway, we buried him in secret. Late at night, we took him on his last trip to the hill. We buried him there, overlooking the city. He so loved coming there while he was...alive.

Each of us said a few words, but there was really nothing to say. He was gone, and that was that. Annie couldn't watch us lower him into the grave. I can't say I blame her; I didn't want to look, either. There's a permanence in it. If you don't see them buried, you can believe they're still alive. But to watch that bloodstained bundle settle into its final resting place deadened my heart a little.

Shit. Why did he have to do it? Things were getting BETTER. The machines were rusting in that hell he called a basement. He was finally getting the hang of being a dad. We were-

Everything was so perfect.

He already died once.

Why did he have to do it again?

author's note: short, i know. but i just had to write it. maybe this will tide a few of you over until i can get the next chapter of my zimfic up. . damn me for beginning a story arc right before skool started! ah well. have fun, kiddies, and do drop a review if you have any comments.  
(oh, and by the way, this is a one-shot and has nothing to do with the story arc of my jthm fics, except for the fact that some of the characters overlap. take it as such, people.)

-raven, your friendly neptunian psychopath


	6. Wish You Were Here

author's note: this is just a quick note on the following poem. its short, kind of repetetive, but im actually pretty happy with how it turned out, considering i wrote it in teh midst of a fever-induced semi-hallucination. all things considering, it turned out pretty coherent. yay me! (oh, and for anyone wondering if there will be any more fangirl letters, im woriking on it. im just trying to figure out how id format the next one...pix are a tricky business, after all.) enjoy, mes amis.

Wish You Were Here

And I find myself whispering

I wish you were here

When all is said and done

And I find I'm all alone

I can't help but whisper

I wish you were here

Even though this ended cleanly

And I know we can't go back

I still find myself whispering

I wish you were here

When the lights have all burnt out

And I can't bother to replace them

I know I'll keep whispering

I wish you were here

And as the years go by

And I find we both have changed

And I remember how you hurt me

I still wish you were here.


End file.
